


A Link to the Past, A Bridge to the Future

by Sharpiefan



Category: Show the Colours (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:05:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3955324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpiefan/pseuds/Sharpiefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thompson returns home during the summer of 1811.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Link to the Past, A Bridge to the Future

**Author's Note:**

> Mine, all mine... The title is from Alex Haley: _In every conceivable manner, the family is link to our past, bridge to our future._

  
**Title:** A Link to the Past, A Bridge to the Future  
**Fandom/Canon:** ,a href="http://showthecolours.jcink.net/index.php?act=idx">Show the Colours  
**Author:** [](http://sharpiefan.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://sharpiefan.dreamwidth.org/)**sharpiefan**  
**Word count:** 1760  
**Rating:** U  
**Spoilers:** None  
**Pairing/Characters:** George Thompson, Lil Baker, Bessie Thompson, Annie Thompson, Jesse Thompson  
**Author's Note:** Mine, all mine... The title is from Alex Haley: _In every conceivable manner, the family is link to our past, bridge to our future._  
**Summary:** Thompson returns home during the summer of 1811.

  
Thompson had been ashore and living in the barracks again for a fortnight before he finally had an afternoon to himself and requested a pass to go into the town. Although it had been several years since he had been home, he knew how to reach his destination despite the confusing twists and turns of the maze of tiny paths and alleyways that wound between the rickety wooden houses which huddled between Dock Road and the river.

He thought wryly that he could probably navigate these streets blindfolded, even after so long away. He ignored the looks (some curious, some hostile) from the people he passed. It was not, after all, unusual to see a redcoat here, but they were not always welcome, although Thompson was on his own rather than with a party of Marines, and obviously knew his way around. This combination of factors meant that people left him alone despite their dubious looks as he passed them.

Eventually he reached his destination and paused outside the door to a narrow wooden building, whose sole small window, while filthy, still showed the glow of light from inside. The sign over the door hung drunkenly as though it had imbibed the alcoholic fumes of the patrons' drinks for too long.

The door lintel was low, almost as though that were the only way to keep the winter chills and summer heat at bay. He took a breath and pushed the door open, unconsciously stepping down the two steps into the smoky taproom. The conversations stilled as the nearest men – sailors and their doxies, all, noticed his red coat as he crossed to the bar.

The burly woman behind the bar regarded him with a hostile frown as he pulled his hat off and laid it on the rough counter-top.

“I'll have a pint of bitter, please, Lil,” he said, feeling in his pocket for a coin.

The parrot sitting on a perch over the bar squawked. "Fuck off, Captain!"

The woman's frown deepened, even as she drew him a tankard of foaming ale and thumped it onto the bar, causing some of the dark liquid inside to slop over onto the counter. He took the tankard with a smile, ignoring the sour look the bar-woman was still giving him.

“Don't suppose Bessie Thompson's still around?” was the next thing the Marine said, leaning one elbow on the counter-top and raising the tankard to his mouth.

The sour unwelcoming expression was replaced as a slow look of recognition dawned on Lil's face and was met by an answering grin as he lowered the tankard and wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Well, I'll be! Georgie Thompson, as I live an' breathe,” she said.

Thompson nodded. “Aye, it's me, in the flesh as you see,” he said. “Is Mum still around?” he added, an anxious look appearing in place of the grin.

Lil nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. “She is, an' Annie too.” She turned and swept aside the ragged curtain which separated the taproom from the more private room behind it. “Jesse, go on an' find your mum an' grandma. There's someone here as wants to see 'em.”

She let the curtain fall again and Thompson raised an eyebrow. “Jesse?”

“You'll see,” she said, just as the curtain was twitched aside and a boy of about six came out. He was barefoot, wearing only a ragged shirt and trousers, and there was something familiar about the pinched face with the dark hair and big green eyes. He didn't spare the Marine a glance before pulling the taproom door open and vanishing.

“Mum's, or Annie's?” Thompson said, turning back to meet Lil's amused eyes as the door creaked shut.

“I oughta let them say, really,” Lil said, taking up a rag to rub at a tankard.

“Lil!” Thompson said.

“They'm your family, not mine, I ain't goin' to say,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a level stare. He shrugged and turned back to his drink.

He did not know how long they had been waiting – long enough for the Dockyard bell to toll twice, its sonorous call ringing out over the town as it had every day (except Sundays) since Thompson himself was a child.

Eventually the door opened and two women came in, followed by the youngster Jesse. Both of them were obviously whores, with bodices that barely kept their bosoms in check, rouged cheeks and brazen expressions. The older woman was careworn, an old woman by local standards, yet still able to turn a shilling and keep a roof over her head – though maybe she pooled her earnings with the younger one, who had the look of the Irish about her, with her black hair and green eyes. There was a definite resemblance between the two, and between the younger and the boy who was still hanging back, unwilling to draw attention to himself, in a way that Thompson recognised and sympathised with.

“They'll have their usual, Lil,” he said, flipping another coin at her. “Hell, make it a jug – be easier.”

He grinned at the two women, who were looking at him without recognition, before crossing to the nearest table and unceremoniously tipping the sole occupant onto the dirty straw-strewn floor.

“There,” he said with a grin.

“Georgie..?” the older woman asked, the pieces of the puzzle suddenly fitting together. She pulled him to her, pulling his head down until he was half smothered in her cleavage, and held him tight.

She held him close for a long while, as though afraid he would vanish again if she let him up, and it wasn't until Lil banged the jug onto the table that he could emerge into the smoky fug again. “Aye, it's me,” he said, with a self-conscious grin, turning to retrieve his hat and the last of his drink, and putting them down on the stained table.

He found a seat and pulled the shy youngster to sit in his lap, offering him the last of his drink. “So, is this'n yourn, Mum, or yourn, Annie?” he said, lifting an eyebrow at each of them as they settled themselves in, pouring their own drinks.

“Mine,” Annie said, lifting her chin as though daring her brother to do anything about it.

Thompson grinned. “Well, then. That'd make me your Uncle George, won't it?” he said, an unexpected warmth pooling in his belly as he looked at the boy, whose face wasn't quite as thin and pinched as he had first thought, although it was as filthy as ever.

“You've bin gettin' me pay, then?” he said, looking at his mother with a grin.

“Aye. Thank ye,” she said, and reached out to run her hand wonderingly over the stripes on Thompson's sleeve. “You done well for yourself, then – a Corp'ral. Never thought I'd see the day.”

“Could've knocked me down with a feather when I was give 'em – thought the officer was joshin' me,” Thompson said, pulling his nephew a little closer. He wondered momentarily if this was what it was like to have a son – he could well _have_ a son somewhere, in fact, but probably would never know, just as he would never know who his father was – and young Jesse would never know _his_ father. It was a thought that occurred to him on occasion, and brought mixed feelings when it did; despite how well he'd done, he'd always be a bastard, born on the wrong side of the blanket, a man who used his mother's name because he didn't know his father's.

It didn't really matter, of course; a Marine was a Marine and the past was the past – nobody in the Corps cared who or what a man was once he had proved himself to be worthy of the name of Marine. But at the same time, it _did_ matter – he didn't know if his father was a man to look up to or not. And the only family he could call his own were those seated here.

Young Jesse put the tankard back on the table and burped, which made Thompson laugh. “Betcha never bin so close to a M'rine as you are right now, younker,” he said, and received a mute shake of the head as the child stared up at him from wide eyes.

“Here, then,” Thompson said, picking his hat up and dropping it on the lad's head, extinguishing the kid's face down to the nose. “Oops,” he added with a grin of his own, and tilted it back a bit to let the boy see out from under the brim.

“There. You'd make a pretty good M'rine yourself, I reckon, once you've got some more growin' done,” he said lightly, as the child reached out to adjust the hat to stop it falling forward again.

“Really?” Jesse said, in a voice almost too quiet for Thompson to catch.

“Really truly,” Thompson said seriously, looking down into big green eyes and thinking it must be like seeing himself at the same age, although he couldn't recall that he'd seen his reflection back then, not in a way he could remember.

The child looked wonderingly at him, even as he took the hat back off and put it back on the table. Thompson frowned suddenly, catching sight of the side of the boy's head, and raised a hand. “Hang on, you've got summat in your ear,” he said, and reached out.

“Now, how'd you get that there,” he asked, pulling his hand back and opening it to reveal a ha'penny, which he then offered to the child. “Run along – if Old Jamie's still doin' pies, get yourself summat tasty,” he said, allowing Jesse to wriggle off his lap to the floor. He was gone without a backward glance to the three adults sitting at the table.

Bessie had watched the small interaction with a smile on her face.“How'd you get to be so good with kids?”

“Dunno. Folks was good to us when we was kids, though, wasn't they, Annie?” he replied, pouring himself another drink from the jug. Annie said nothing, though the fond look on her face needed no words.

“Fam'ly need to stick together, an' all, don't they,” Thompson added, knowing that he would do his best to look out for his nephew, and any other children his sister might have, as much as he could. Jesse had given him a reminder of his past, it would be only right to give the child a brighter future.


End file.
